Sorry!
by Marie E. Brooke
Summary: Who knew a simple game of Sorry! could ruin your whole life? A little one-shot that follows through Maia's life, starting from a toddler to a full-grown adult. Mostly canon. AU. Rated M for dark themes and suggestive content.


**A friend of mine said I couldn't write anything but humor. Oh? You think I can't? Well, I'll prove you wrong! Here it is! Written proof. Warning: this fic is constantly changing POVs. (i.e. first person, second person) And it isn't just a fic about 'Sorry!', either. It's about Maia's whole life. Not the version Cassie gave us. This version goes more in depth into Maia's story. **

**By my seraphic pen,**

**Marie E. Brooke**

* * *

><p>David Roberts was a perfect brother, you think. He taught you how to tie your shoe and how to ride a bicycle. He sneaks candy to you when Mom isn't looking. And when night falls and your all alone in your bed with only the looming shadows and the creaky noises to keep you company, you crawl into his bed and cuddle with him and he even comforts you, patting you on the head and telling you that everything will be OK.<p>

But like all things, this changed too soon. (After all, God doesn't make people like that in the world. Otherwise, the world wouldn't be filled with all those bad guys that Mommy always complains about.) It was on a rather pleasant day, November 16th, you remember. The sky was dotted with white, puffy clouds stretched out in a line, like the loose strand of thread on your coat that you pick at right now. David is walking you to school, and you are taking a shortcut. You don't know exactly what it means, but you think it sounds mysterious and cool (also words you learned from David). You can't wait to show off to your friends about the new, fancy word you learned.

You duck into an alley with him. David says it's part of the shortcut - the fancy word - but you don't like it. It does not feel very cool.

Suddenly, two kids with ivory skin emerge from the shadows. Their skin is covered with black ink (tattoos, you think proudly, remembering the word David taught you) and they don't look very friendly. One of them has spiky hair and another is trying to look brave like your brother but your hands are trembling. You clutch at your brother's shirt.

"Hey, you black kids!" one of them says. The bald one. He comes up close. You can feel his breath fanning across your arms. It smells bad, not like mommy's nice fresh scent, but like the trash she always complains about taking out. You wrinkle your nose. "You crossing on our property?"

"Don't be racist," says David bravely. You feel a surge of pride for your brother. He knows such big words. "And this is public property, in case you didn't know. It's an alley."

"You sassing us, punk?" The other guy comes up and grabs David by the shoulder. You cry out, starting forward, but David gives you a look. Don't, Maia. Please. he mouths. You nod, timid, and step back.

"Wait," says the bald one. "I know you." He pulls David closer. "You're that loser that's always with your sister!" He laughs. "Hardly a threat!"

"I'm not a loser." He juts his chin out. "You are. All you do is bully other people but I know what you really are: You're afraid. Afraid that other people are going to fight back from your bullying and they will, someday-"

David, no! you think, and open your mouth, but it's too late. His face twists into a mask of pure fury and he swings his fist against David's face. He staggers back, hand clutching the right half of his face. His fingers are stained with crimson, dripping through them and pooling in a puddle beneath him. It is a horrible sight, too horrible for you, a five-year old. You shout at him, "David! Are you all right!" Of course not. You rush towards him and shake him, sobbing. "David! Talk to me!"

The bald one turned his towards you, noticing you for the first time. "Oh, you're the black brat," he snarls. "All you do is whine, whine and whine. You're nothing but a piece of crap that belongs in the landfill." Your eyes fill with hot, wet tears that are too large to handle. They spill down your cheeks in rivets, making tracks in the dirt that's dusted lightly across your face.

Your brother stirs. You try to hold his hand, but he pushes you roughly away. He stands protectively over you. "Don't even-" he begins furiously.

"And you," interrupts the bald one, swinging his head towards your brother, "you're always prancing around with your little sis thinking you're so cool and popular but really? You are just lame. Made of lame. The king of lame. Unless you drop that girl"-he points toward you-"you are always going to be that way." With that, the two boys stormed out of the alley.

"Those guys were meanies, weren't they?" you say to him.

David sighs. "Yes, yes they were." He pats your head. "Don't go near those kinds of people, Maia. They are baddies."

The next day, you see him with the same two boys, asking for advice on how to be cool. The bald one sees you and winks, but David only glances at you once and then turns away, continuing to talk. He forgets all about it.

But you don't.

* * *

><p>Maia was worried. David hadn't been talking to her for days now, which was unusual, and it was her sixth birthday. He still hadn't given her anything, not even acknowledging the special holiday. She had decided that he was waiting to surprise her. Yes, that was it. He wanted her birthday to be as cool as possible so he was planning a surprise party. But Maia was bored. She wanted to play something during this time.<p>

She wanted to play...

Sorry.

She quickly grabbed the multicolored box from the shelf and waddled over to where David was sitting, intently focusing on his homework. She poked him.

"What is it, Maia?" he asked, voice irritable, worrying Maia even more. Irritable? David was always patient with her. She brushed this off, unconcerned. He was probably just being moody.

"Do you want to play Sorry?" she asked, slyly pulling out her favorite board game from out behind her back.

He grinned. Much better, thought Maia, satisfied. "Sorry, Maia," he joked, taking off the lid to the board game. "Let's play!"

They get set up quickly. There is a certain amount of disagreement about the colors-Maia and David both want green-but they eventually work it out. They begin to play, eager to win their favorite game.

Maia grinned as she got one of her pieces into home. "Haha! Only...three more left," she finished, dismayed as she glanced at her three pieces still in home. She sneaked a look at David. He had two of his pieces in home-all of them were out of start and one was even in the safety zone. David noticed this and smirked, sticking his tongue out at her. On the next turn he got a seven, meaning he had the chance to get another in home, but he doesn't. Maia grins, touched at this brotherly act. All part of the surprise gift, she thinks.

Little did she know that this is his gift for her, one more day of kindness before he turns his back on her forever.

(He gave her white roses, too)

* * *

><p>I don't think he will change. I've hoped for years, but to no avail: I would act ever so patient with him, never tattle and let him get away with things that shouldn't be gotten away with, especially with me being a female. There are countless others as well, but that's not the point. The point is that I'm done.<p>

Over.

I shoulder my pack stuffed with all my necessities and stroll out the door. I step back and stare at the bright pink house, sucking in every detail. The sharp glow of the afternoon light that hits the smooth glass windows at an angle. The welcome mat is still the same as it was forever, brown and etched with black letters spelling, 'We are a happy home!'

Happy memories flood my head. Back when David was kind and caring. Back when Mom and Dad were a happy couple and not tearing up the house with their arguments. Their faces, glowing with a beautiful joy, loom up in my mind. Could our broken family return to this state, happy and caring? Could we change our ways and go back to being like the joyous family we once were?

I think of my mom, with blank, glassy eyes, clutching a wine glass with white knuckles. I hear my father's yells vibrating through the house, loud and echoing, speaking abuse. I flinch as I remember my brother's hand whipping across my cheek, hard and unyielding.

No. They cannot. It is far too late.

I blink away my tears and tear my eyes away from my former home and walk away, a train ticket to Manhattan balled in my fist.

Bye, New Jersey.

Farewell, Crosswell Avenue.

_Goodbye, brother._

The train ride to Manhattan is brisk and short, and without regret. I watch the New Jersey buildings fade into the smog, feeling no remorse.

Because I am not the girl who cried when she was first slapped by her brother.

I am not the girl who cowered against the wrath of her father.

I am Maia Roberts, and I am who I chose to be.

(she left white roses on her bed with her note)

* * *

><p>I sit on the edge of my cot, swinging my legs and staring out the window.<p>

It's been exactly seven months since I ran away from home. Or prison, as I like to call it. That place was hardly a home.

I'm in an orphanage now. The food is utter crap, the clothes are scratchy (thank goodness I had the hindsight to bring extras) the cot hard and damp and the room is grey and dreary, but it's a hell lot better than _prison _I was in before.

The _prison _that was my home.

My home...

Just then, my bedroom door opens and in peeks a brunette. The manager of the orphanage, it seems.

"Maia Roberts?" she asks in her annoyingly high-pitched voice.

"Yes, ma'm?" I answer for courtesy's sake, even though I think she is annoying and screams prissy. Well, she is in charge of my well-being. She did accept that fake story I told her. I think she saw through it, but at least she gave me a place to say. Too bad her voice is just _so annoying._

"A family is interested in adoption. I suggested you, since you do seem awfully sad. If you feel uncomfortable getting new parents, though, it's perfectly alright..."

Suddenly, her voice is like the sound of angels singing from the high. "Of course, m'am," I say in a neutral tone, but I can't stop a wide grin from spreading across my face.

She gives me a genuine smile. I'll have to get used to that. "That's great. I'll give you 30 minutes to get ready." She closes the door gently. I can hear her retreating footsteps.

I should be happy. I _am _happy.

Then why am I thinking of my fluffy white bed and pink wallpaper from my old home?

* * *

><p>You throw up your graduation hat in celebration, a wide grin spread across your face. Your friend, Isabelle, tosses her diploma a few feet in the air and catches it by the tips of her fingers.<p>

"You could've dropped that, you know," points out Clary, who keeps her hat firmly on her head and diploma clutched safety in her fist. "That's definitely not something you want to drop."

"Who cares?" Isabelle flashes her a grin. "Are you not confident in my aim? Besides, it's graduation. You gotta learn to have a little fun." She cups her hands around her mouth, raising her voice. "Hey! Party at my place! Bring beer!" Her announcement brings several whoops and cheers, mostly from the boys, who are always hosting drinking parties in their dorms. _It's a wonder they even got in to Prateor Lupus, _ you think scornfully, _much less actually graduate. _

"You shouldn't do that," says Clary, who is a short girl with flaming red hair and piercing green eyes. "It's irresponsible. Your diploma is very important."

_What a goody two-shoes. "_We are grads. Irresponsible is our middle name," you tell her. No matter how much of a kill joy Clary is, you, as her friend, is still obligated to let her have some fun. "The party is at nine, and you are coming." Isabelle nods in agreement. Clary tries to protest, but you and Isabelle keep pestering her, so she eventually caves in and accompanies you two to your house. You and Isabelle have fun dressing up Clary, giggling every time you find a particularly nice dress that you both suspect will look cute on Clary.

After much aruguing and descion-making on your part, you and Isabelle finally agree on a cute black dress that reaches her thighs (it's actually one of Isabelle's spaghetti straps, but you refrain from mentioning that to Clary). Isabelle starts to look for something nice to go with it, thumbing through dark-colored accessories, while you shove Clary into a plush stool in front of the vanity and start to do her makeup.

"Open your eyes wide, or I'll ruin your face," you warn her, picking up a thin tube of mascra and uncapping it.

Clary widens her eyes. "Is that enough for you?" she says, a hint of annoyance in her face.

"Perfect," you say. You add a few brushes to her eyelashes and a hint of eyeliner. You dust her eyelids with silver shadow and expertly add small dabs of rouge to her cheekbones. Within 20 minutes, you are done with her face. "You know, if you actually put some effort into your looks, you would look much better," you tell her.

"Thanks a lot for your praise," she grumbles.

"No problem," you respond cheerfully, then turn to Isabelle, who is still looking through her closet. "Izzy! I need some help!" You point to Clary's wild red hair that is mussed up into a furry ball.

Isabelle carefully examines the fiery mess. "Her hair is super frizzy, for one, and I left my curling iron at Aline's, so I guess we'll have to just pin it up. Maybe add some fancy pins or something. That would look cute." Isabelle glances at you for approval, and you nod. "Great, then!" She claps her hands. "Let's get started."

It takes at least ten minutes to find all the bobby pins they need and another ten to find the hair spray, which has been neglected for awhile, due to Isabelle's flawless hair. But Clary's hair is a whole different story.

"You have _got _to get some better conditioner," says Isabelle as she wrestles with a particularly huge knot in Clary's hair. After several unsuccessful attempts, the comb finally breaks. Bored, you hand Isabelle yet another comb and toss the broken one onto its designated pile, which is steadily growing.

An infinite amount of broken combs and censored words later, Clary is finally ready (you and Isabelle have only just succumbed to the will of knot-relief hair products). You and Isabelle had taken shifts on untangling in order to get yourselves ready for the party. You, Isabelle and Clary hitch a ride with the Lightwood family driver.

Isabelle's parents are filthy rich, so their house - no, mansion - is huge. It's as white as beach sand (in fact, it is supposed to look like a sandcastle, so the walls even have a sandy texture) and is comprised of tall, spiraling towers that are draped with fluid strokes of green, save the gigantic house, white and dotted with shells, in the midst of them all. The backyard has beach sand that is scattered with small, delicate seashells. In the yard, there is a fountain that spews salt water, and several ceramic statues that depict sea creatures. It's unbelievable.

But it has nothing, _nothing, _on what's inside.

You can hardly see the room amidst the colored smoke, but you know it looks amazing. The loud chatter and pounding of instruments from the band make your eardrums hurt. You push your way through the massacre of people, smelling sweat and cherry lip gloss, and finally find yourself in the center of the dance floor. You feel the heartbeats of everyone pulse through the floor. You start to tap your foot, then you swing your hips, and soon enough, you're rocking the dance floor, waving your arms and shaking your body to the music like a pro. The lights and figures blur to mere colors as you get more into the music (though it may have less to do with the music and more about the shots of saké you took).

Finally, tipsy and dizzy, you stumble out of the stuffy area, dodging a red-faced Isabelle's attempt to grab your arm. You spare a last glance towards the party, and you see Clary, who is chatting with a rather handsome blonde boy, laughing. You grin, satisfied at your work.

As you walk along the deserted street (Isabelle's family lives in the more peaceful area of New York) the effects of the alcohol start to wear off. Your cheeks are slowly loosing their splotchy red, and the night chill is colder than ever. You wrap your sweater around your shivering body. In your drunk state, you forgot that this is a relatively empty area. Besides, it wouldn't be worth it to walk all the way back to Isabelle's house just to get bombarded by drunk people. Thankfully, you have been to Isabelle's house numerous times before and remember seeing a subway some five blocks away, which is only a block away from where you stand. You smile, internally praising yourself for figuring out the dilemma, and start to walk faster.

And then you hear it.

A scratchy sound, as if something was being dragged across the sidewalk.

You whip your head around to see David clutching a wine bottle, staggering towards you. His chin is covered with stubble and he is dressed in tattered, dirty clothes that hang loosely on his skinny frame. Through the lamplight, you can make out his gleaming eyes, swallowed up almost completely with black.

"Maia," he slurs, stumbling towards you and reaching out his hand. You recoil from his touch." My _querida hermana."_

You wince as your mind is filled with happy memories: David tying your shoe, David helping you draw a picture, David teaching you how to ride a bike, David whispering assurances to you in the dark -

_No. _You can't afford to let yourself be swayed by nostalgia. You have long since accepted that David would never change. "Get away from me," you manage to choke out, walking backwards into the street.

"Maia," he says, a hint of despair leaking into his voice. His eyes find yours and they look wide and brown and desperate and _so very David._ "Maia, _I need you._"

You take a deep breath and try to steel yourself against his pleading words, but when you speak, your voice still shakes. "You should have thought about that before you started to - when you started to- " Your voice wavers and you stop, closing your eyes. _Steady breaths, Maia. Slow, deep breaths, _you think. _Stay calm. _

But you can't stay calm because you are already on the sidewalk and he's still chasing you, stumbling unevenly across the road. And then you see a car zooming across the street and you call out to him but it's too latebecause the car passes and he's lying on the ground, his limbs spread out at an unnatural angle and he's _not moving. _

You make a noise in the back of your throat and rush towards him, kneeling down and gently cradling his limp figure. You check his pulse. Still there. Faint, but there nevertheless. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding and clutch his hand so tightly that your knuckles are white.

His eyes flutter open, revealing golden-honey orbs. "Maia," he croaks, "my dear, dear sister. I am so sorry." He cups your cheek with his hand. This time, you don't flinch away, and, feeling more encouraged, he continues. "I'm so sorry," he repeats. "I know that the things I've done are, to say the least, unforgivable" - he gulps - "and I know that things like that can't be reversed, but please, can you find it in your heart to forgive me?" He turns his shining gold eyes to you.

It is amazing that he can say such beautiful words under the presence of dying, you think in wonderment. For a minute, you are lost in those shining gold eyes that speak of the better times. _I forgive you, _you want to say, and you open your mouth, but the words are still stuck in your throat and just _won't come out. _

David's eyes lose some of their golden sheen. A dozen emotions flash through his eyes before he speaks again, and his voice is croaky and scratched like somebody who is on the verge of death. "It's OK, I understand," he says comfortingly. "The things I've done can't be forgiven."

Your throat unhinges and you can talk again. "No, David! I -" you start, but David's golden eyes have already darkened, like doll's eyes, glassy and unseeing. You finally allow yourself to cry, the guttural sounds of your scratchy throat piercing the air. You stay there for a long time, crouched and shaking David's lifeless body, screaming and shouting at David that you _forgive _him, that you are _sorry_ and to _please come back _because it _isn't funny anymore,_but the words are useless because no matter how long you holler for him, no matter how many times you shake him, he won't hear you because you checked his pulse and it isn't there.

And even after the police drags you away, David's body is still in the middle of the street.

His eyes are open.

Golden-honey eyes.

Dull, golden-honey eyes staring up at the endless expanse of stars that they can never glimpse again.

* * *

><p>Maia didn't cry at the funeral.<p>

She tried, sure, but the tears flat-out refused to fall. She tried to screw up her eyes, to _command _the tears to be released, but to no avail. Dry sobs wracked her body and her eyes were squinched shut, dry raspy sounds emerging from her throat, but her eyes remained dry. Sorrow lay heavily in her heart and she wanted more than anything to see him _one last time, _but those tears; ah, those tears. They _just wouldn't come._

But she also felt something else. Something that she was very much ashamed of.

Relief.

She couldn't help it. After all, she comforted herself, her brother _had _been the one who appeared in her worst nightmares and was one of the main reasons she ran away.

But she still felt like a terrible person.

A terrible, terrible person.

(She left white roses at his gravestone - a neutral color, displaying neither love nor grief.)

* * *

><p>Maia Velasquez stood on her balcony, the gentle breeze ruffling her soft chestnut hair. Her hands gripped the rusty metal railing and she stared out at the horizon, which was colored with dark blue with twinkling stars.<p>

She didn't have to check her phone to know that this was the day of her deadly sin. The day her brother died, cold and alone on that little crosswalk. Maia's eyes were blurred with tears, which she brushed away impatiently.

She remembered every moment like yesterday: The way the streetlamp flickered slightly as he crawled after her in his ragged clothes. His chapped lips, opening to spill out words that brought her back to the past, pretty words, like beautiful shells on the seashore that you would hold to your ear, listening as the wind blew through its hollow interior. The wild, desperate look in his eyes as he pleaded with her to please, _please _forgive him.

And then the car had crashed into him, spewing mud, and he fell, unbidden, to the ground. His eyes caramel eyes had flashed for one, brilliant second before turning dull and glassy.

And he had died.

But as the years had gone by, she had forgotten, her life occupied by boyfriends and jobs and then weddings and babies. The vivid details had faded slightly, a memory tucked into the back of her mind, lurking about like a ghost to haunt her sleep.

But guilt still lay in her heart, gnawing at her peace of mind and destroying her. She fingered a lock of her hair, staring out into the horizon.

Bat, coming out of the sliding glass doors, wrapped his arms around his wife's waist. "Why are you always so distant on this day?" he murmured sadly into her hair.

She studied him. She complemented telling him on several occasions, seeing his crestfallen face through the cracks of the door when she refused to come out of bed. But she was too afraid: afraid to see his sad face turn into one of horror. _You're a monster, _he would tell her. _A monster. _

She plastered a fake smile on her face. "Nothing, darling."

(She put white roses at his grave that day.)

* * *

><p><strong>...And that is why I should never write tragedy. <strong>

**Review!**


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